


Chaos Theory

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hermann opens his eyes and the equations start. Numbers and symbols swim in front of his vision, and he finds comfort in their presence."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos Theory

**Author's Note:**

> So this was born from a prompt from [kaijuscience](http://kaijuscience.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and she wanted some bedroom fluff with these two dorks. So I kinda took it and ran with it and ended up with this. I don't have a lot of experience writing fluff, but I tried.
> 
> Also wow okay my lacking math skills totally were a detriment to me in this piece, so let's pretend that I know what I'm talking about.
> 
> And because I'm a big dork, I actually googled airplane mugs to find one for Hermann, so here's his mug if you're interested: http://www.zazzle.com/biplane_aircraft_1900s_vintage_airplane_mug-168110128244592857
> 
> I'm always gonna be heartbroken over his dreams of wanting to be a pilot.
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and feedback is always appreciated!

Hermann sees orange through his eyelids. He feels the cool whispers of the early morning fill his bones, pale light slipping in through the drawn curtains like a curious passerby, tugging him gently from unconsciousness and into the waking world where he’s aware of his toes curling in response to the cold air, where his arm buzzes with the static of sleep, where he senses the presence of another body in bed sprawled manically across the mattress because there’s no other way that man could sleep. Quiet huffs of breath escape into the still room, muffled by what he’d guess to be a pillow or wad of blankets.

Hermann opens his eyes and the equations start. Numbers and symbols swim in front of his vision, and he finds comfort in their presence.

He stares at the ceiling, synapses and neurons firing and bringing life to his body, before he turns on his side.

Immediately, his eyes soften as they fall on the sleeping man who lays face down. Newt’s hair stands up in wild tufts, like he’d ventured through a wind tunnel, and week old stubble peppers his jawline. A maroon pajama shirt that definitely belongs to Hermann rides up his back, exposing the intricate ink-work along the skin. Hermann finds beauty in the curve of Newt’s spine, the angle of the crook in his elbow, the quick slide of numbers as he works out a formula for his breathing.

But for as many details he can solve about Newt, the man himself remains an unsolvable equation to Hermann. Long ago, far before he’d met Newt, Hermann had thought that every person had an algorithm, a set of rules by which he could predict their actions. He prided himself on this idea, using it to shelter himself against the cruel taunts and sneering insults of his childhood bullies, and, later, his coworkers.

Newt tore that all away.

He pried the ragged security blanket that Hermann had made himself from his fingers, bunched it up, and then let it burn. He was lightning in a bottle, ignited and ready to explode. Spontaneity and chaos and impulsivity were the man’s specialty, and he might’ve just as well knocked the cane out from under Hermann’s grasp. Needless to say, they butted heads, slung insults just as often as they breathed, and had even gone weeks without talking to each other after particularly bad quarrels, but something always drew the pair of scientists back together. They may have created cacophony and sparks, but, in the end, it was just the precursor to what they were always headed towards: Fire; a single, unified flame burning strong and bright.

Hermann pulls the covers back towards him, reaching out to flip Newt over and bring him closer to his chest before throwing the blankets over them both. Newt sleepily obliges, snuggling tight against Hermann as he lets out a small noise of contentment that goes straight to Hermann’s heart.

“Wha’ time is it?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Five,” 

“In the morning?” Newt asks incredulously.

“No, in the evening,” Hermann replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Newt says, and Hermann can’t help the quiet chuckle that escapes from his lips. Newt turns around in Hermann’s arms so he can face him. “You think something’s funny?” he challenges, doing his best to sound intimidating, but instead comes off more like a petulant child.

“Nothing more than what I usually do,”

Newt sniffs, kissing Hermann lazily before burying his head into Hermann’s chest.

“That’s what I thought,” he sleepily murmurs. A minute passes before Newt speaks again, his words heavier, as if he were about to drift off at any given moment. “I like it when you do that,”

“Hm?”

“M’back, the designs you do,”

It’s then that Hermann realizes that he’d been tracing his finger along Newt’s back, unconscious streams of, not designs, but invisible equations, filling up the space. Familiar formulas meeting the enigma of Newt Geiszler.

Hermann lets himself smile, his eyes shutting as the steady rise and fall of Newt’s breath lulls him back to sleep. The last thought he has before he’s pulled under is the crackle of a fire.

\---

When Hermann wakes up next, it’s to the dipping of the bed and the scent of his favorite breakfast tea wafting around him.

“Wakey, wakey, Hermann,” he hears Newt say into his own mug filled with coffee. His hand is outstretched with another mug, Hermann’s blue one with the vintage biplane design. “We’ve got things to do, places to be.”

Hermann lets out a tired groan as he sits up, taking the mug. “You’d better not spill a drop of that on here,” he mutters, checking the clock and noting it to be just after eleven.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Newt quips, leaning against Hermann. He lets him take his hand in his own, twining their fingers together.

Hermann looks around. The pale sunlight of dawn had now been replaced by thick, golden streams of light pouring in through the opened curtains. He can hear the sounds of the city from below; cars whirring, people buzzing, life simply moving forward.

“What d’you mean we’ve got things to do?” Hermann asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Typical,” is all Newt mutters into Hermann’s neck as he presses his lips against it. Hermann frowns. He sets down his mug on the side table and pulls Newt’s face up to his own to kiss him properly, the angle of their lips in relation to one another slipping quickly past his eyes. It tastes like coffee with three too many spoonfuls of sugar.

“What’re you prattling on about now?” Hermann says as he pulls away, taking quiet satisfaction in the way Newt follows his lips for half a second.

“You know, for a renowned mathematician, you can be really dense about numbers sometimes,”

Hermann scowls, but Newt doesn’t let the familiar gesture deter him.

“Well, are you going to tell me, or not?”

“It’s your birthday, you idiot.” Newt says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Oh. _Oh._

“Of course it is,” Hermann says defiantly, averting his gaze towards the open window.

“And you totally remembered, sure, sure,” Newt gently mocks, getting up off the bed. “Get dressed, we’re going to brunch, old man,” is all he says before he leaves the room.

Hermann keeps the scowl on his face until he’s certain that Newt’s gone, only then letting the corners of his mouth twitch up in a small smile.

For so long Hermann had thought he’d had it all figured out, had the map of his life plotted and set, but he was completely wrong. With Newt, he’d thrown that all to the fire. He’d let the flames raze the coarse corners of his life, obliterating the walls and shields he’d built up over the years as a scared child and isolated adult. He’d watched the embers lick and dance around the crumbling structures, glowing hot as he stood there, Newt by his side.

Hermann brings a finger up in the air to trace an equation, to try one more time to solve Newt Geiszler, the walking, talking, breathing definition of chaos theory, and he thinks he’s close this time, but he stops mid-parenthesis as he hears a clatter and a string of profanity from the other room. He lowers his hand and curls it around his tea mug, smiling.

Again, the equation becomes too all-consuming, too scattered and contradictory to solve.

Hermann wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
